Sunday, April 29, 2007

My Home

This is the place that I love the best,A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seenSifts through the vine-made window screen--Sifts and quivers, and flits and fallsOn home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June the west wind freeThe breath of clover brings to me.All through the languid July dayI catch the scent of new-mown hay.

The morning-glories and scarlet vineOver the doorway twist and twine;And every day, when the house is still,The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sunI sink to sleep when the day is done;And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,By a singing bird on the roof o'erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome,Are the living pictures I see at home--My aged father, with frosted hair,And mother's face, like a painting rare.

Far from the city's dust and heat,I get but sounds and odors sweet.Who can wonder I love to stay,Week after week, here hidden away,In this sly nook that I love the best--This little brown house like a ground-bird's nest?